


What Friends Are For

by neuroglam



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Do it for him, M/M, Phichit is a homesick bae, Pre-Canon, Yuuri has a bad case of fangirl, a friend in need's a friend indeed, dastardly plans for Phichit Chulanont/Katsuki Yuuri and Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, detroit shenanigans, etcetera - Freeform, kink negotiations, or something, references to SM, references to bondage / shibari, rinkmates with benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 01:46:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9694379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: Katsuki Yuuri is a pure, gentle soul and Phichit loves him to death—but God does he need an intervention.(a.k.a., another one where they "practice for Victor.")





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GwiYeoWeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/gifts).



> Win, Racchi, and Eerie gave feedback on an earlier draft. All remaining crap writing mine. Writing concrit and any mistakes spotted, welcome :)

What Friends Are For

  


In spite of its reputation on TV, the United States is _boring_.

Phichit had been so excited to land a spot training with Celestino in Detroit—both because Celestino is Celestino and because that’s where Eminem is from—but two weeks into the training season, he has managed to have exactly zero fun.

He’s been carded relentlessly—everywhere, and for everything. Americans are merciless—no tips, no winks, nothing will make them let him into a club or sell him some booze. Phichit even gets busted and thrown out of a bar—a boring one, with a TV in one corner and a pool table in the other, and with crappy music—for accepting a drink from a guy while under twenty-one.

Coming from sunny Bangkok, where the nights are warm and American tourists loose with their cash, Phichit feels close to crawling out of his skin. Gone are the days when he could just show up in Siloi district in his white skinny jeans, Ray Bans propped casually on his head, and leave pleasantly buzzed for a buff _farang_ 's hotel room in the early hours of the morning.

Americans don’t even do proper karaoke—who on Earth doesn’t do karaoke?

As far as Phichit is concerned, these guys wouldn’t know how to have fun if it bit them in the butt—which it never does ‘cause they spend most of their time sipping lager and shouting No Homo at the football game on TV.

He's petty, but it’s fair pay for all the carding.

So Phichit is excited, two weeks in, to learn that he’ll have another rink mate—and most importantly, that this rink mate's twenty-one. He spends the week before the guy arrives fantasizing about how he will buy booze for both of them and might even help hook him up with a fake ID.

Yuuri Katsuki, however, turns out to be another disappointment.

He’s a nice guy, don’t get him wrong—like, really decent and friendly and helpful. They end up living next door to each other in the dorms and walk to and from practice together. They help each other stretch at night. They term Celestino Ciao Ciao, and commiserate over how demanding he’s being. Yuuri doesn’t talk or share much, but he listens to Phichit’s stories from Bangkok. Phichit hadn’t realized how much he’s needed to talk about home until something inside him unclenches and Americans suddenly seem less annoying.

Yuuri is also really intense. Phichit gets it: you have to be, to succeed in competitive sport. But at the same time, the determination with which Yuuri metronomes between the rink and his dorm room bed is starting to chafe. He refuses invitations to the movies, to the bar, and even to the stupid mall. He refuses them _very_ politely, but refuses all the same.

The only place Yuuri has allowed himself to be dragged to is the pet store, when Phichit went to get his hamsters. Other than that? No time to hang out, not even in Phichit’s room. When Phichit asks him for his favorite band, he says he listens to all types of music. Favorite book? _Umm, I don’t really read_. Movie? _Whatever you want to watch is OK._ Show? _Not a TV person._ Like, what’s this guy even into?

Phichit is close to tearing his hair out when he’s finally invited to Yuuri’s room and he sees the posters. Alllllrightie, then. It’s Victor fucking Nikiforov, staring at you from every wall. The posters are old, too, so Phichit assumes Yuuri’s brought them from his previous bedroom. On the dresser, there may or may not be an honest to God shrine.

“Oh, wow,” Phichit says. “You're into Victor Nikiforov, then?”

Yuuri blushes so hard the tips of his ears are probably red under his mop of hair.

Phichit tries to salvage the situation. “I think he’s pretty cool, too. That quad salchow, double loop, triple loop combination from the Euros? Fucking ace, man!”

This appears to have been the right thing to say, because he’s suddenly being treated to a rather impassioned lecture on how long that move was in development, how Victor had done a quad-double-double for the Russian nationals and transitioned to a camel spin, how impressive it was to have a combination like that so late in a program— _and_ _who_ _a_ , Phichit thinks, _you go, dude, I didn’t think you had it in you, communicating in complex sentences_.

“He really inspires me to do better,” Yuuri finally says, somewhere around minute seven. “I’ve been trying for that combination, too, but I can only do it with a triple salchow so far.”

“You know a lot about him,” Phichit says, a little awed.

“Yeah, I try to keep up with his interviews and stuff. And, um, I watch videos on youtube to study his programs after practice.”

_Ah. So thats what you do all night._

Phitchit smiles. “You’re lucky! Having good motivation is really important. I wish I had something that would make me stop wanting to hit snooze when Ciao Ciao makes us get up at six for practice.”

Yuuri chuckles.

“Let me borrow one of the posters, see if the magic transfers,” Phichit jokes.

Having proven himself accepting of Yuuri’s Victor Nikiforov thing, Phichit is slowly but surely being let in. They start hanging out after practice, which is good—hamsters are awesome, but they aren’t company. Plus, for all the grouching about having no fun, it’s starting to dawn on Phichit that working with Ciao Ciao is a whole new ball-game, not at all like his easy-going coach in Thailand. On the one hand, that’s why he’s here. On the other, he’s quickly being swallowed by his training schedule and wouldn’t have the time to get a social life even if he’d wanted to.

During the next couple of weeks, it is revealed that Yuuri does in fact do things for fun: for instance, he has a Google Alert on Victor’s name and discusses anything new on a couple of fannish message boards.

When Phichit fails to declare him a creepy stalker, Yuuri tells him of his life-long dream to skate on the same ice as Victor.

Apparently, it is in pursuit of this dream that Yuuri cannot be dragged away from his desk, not even to the Chinese place down the street.

“I’m already twenty-one,” Yuuri says solemnly one Friday night, hamster-in-hand and eyes on youtube. “I only have so much time left as a competitive skater. If I want to do it, I must focus. I can’t afford distraction. _”_

Katsuki Yuuri is a pure, gentle soul and Phichit loves him to death—but God does he need an intervention.

Phichit needs to make a plan, and a good one: win-win, ‘cause Phichit is a good friend, and also subtle enough not to spook Yuuri. He lets all of this percolate at the back his head, surveys it this way and that and finally, at the end of November, figures that he’s got something he’s proud of.

He spends the next week setting up the scene.

On the first Friday of December, they’re hanging out in Phichit’s dorm room as they usually do on Friday nights. To assist with Yuuri’s inhibitions, he’s snuck in a case of Coronas (three months in, he has hacked this part of life in the States: batting your lashes may not work on servers, but uninspiring thirty-something Grindr dates are a different matter).

The Coronas are watery but they’re the only thing Yuuri’s said he’ll actually drink—and only two, and only if there’s no practice on the morning after. So Coronas it is; needs must.

Thank god that Yuuri’s tolerance is utter crap.

During beer number one, Yuuri listens to Phichit talk about how awesome it would be if he could inspire a new generation of Thai skaters.

Phichit doesn’t usually talk about this. There’s only so many times you can hear a half-dismissive o _f course you will, dear_ from your mom before you get utterly frustrated and give up. His high school friends don’t care about skating, and the adults act as if he’s told them he’ll be an astronaut when he grows up. Correction: _most_ of the adults. Phichit’s coach is different—she just changes the topic. It used to hurt until it dawned on him that she’s at the tail end of a career trying to do exactly that, but has succeeded only at being a glorified babysitter for rich, spoiled kids. So far, Phichit’s the only one of her students to develop an actual passion for skating. Since then, he’s stopped talking to her about it. He doesn’t need to rub it in.

Yuuri, on the other hand, is full of encouragement. Phichit loves that about him—how he has time for other people’s pipe dreams and not just his own. For the first time in forever, he can just talk: about fusing classical skating with traditional music and dance, and how some of the higher-end ladyboy shows attract tourists like that: with the promise of a family-friendly cultural experience rather than just titillation. Might be cool to do something similar but at the rink. He plays some sample tracks on youtube; shows Yuuri folk-fusion bands he’s considered for the music.

Halfway through beer two, a Thai pop playlist is bubbling in the background and their conversation’s winded down. Yuuri’s nose is once again in his cell phone. Phichit figures now’s the time: let’s see if he can get this where he wants it to go.

Knowing Yuuri, it shouldn’t be too hard.

“You stalking his Insta?” Phichit waves with his bottle. No need to specify who “he” is.

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” Yuuri rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Here, I’ll put my cell phone away.”

“No problem. Hold your beer up and smile, let’s take a selfie.”

“Eeeeeh,” Yuuri says. He’s a little tipsy, you can tell by how pink his cheeks are, but he’s still shy. Absolutely amazing.

Phichit tries. “You’ve got to build an online presence, dude. If you have many followers you’d get sponsorships more easily—yeah, it’s not such a big deal to get paid to pose with a Starbucks cup twice a year, but it adds up. It can help with your skating.”

“Yeah.” Somehow, Yuuri doesn’t sound persuaded. It’s mind-boggling. It’s money! Doesn’t Yuuri ever look at his rink fees?

They’ve got the two most mismatched social media styles on the planet. It’s tragic. But that’s never come in the way of a good selfie before and it won’t now. Phichit scoots over and angles their heads together. “Smile now! C’mon: #BFFs, #FridayVibes, _etcetera_. You can do it!” The shutter clicks. “And another one-- nice!”

It is a cute picture. Well, the corner of the bed needs cropped out and then it needs a filter ‘cause neon dorm room lights are crap, but still. Phichit gets to it.

“There, posted,” he says once he’s finished fiddling with his Insta.

Now: “What sponsorships does Victor have?”

Aaaand Yuuri is off: he shows Instagram pics, ads on youtube, then stuff on google images, the works. Phichit interrupts the lecture at approximately minute twelve as Yuuri peers at an underwear ad and basks in adoration.

“I wonder what kind of person he’d like to be friends with,” Phichit says like it's a random thought that’s just come to him out of nowhere. “A guy this awesome—what would it take for him to respect someone? To want to be around that person?”

Yuuri knows. Of course he knows. “Well, in the GQ interview from June 2014, he said...”

 _Aww, the precious pup, honestly_ , Phichit thinks and interrupts. “Yeah, yeah, he’s a celebrity, I bet he said something open-ended so he can stick to his public image without alienating his fans. I mean, like, _really_. In his actual life.”

Yuuri picks at the sticker of his Corona. “I don’t know,” he says miserably. “Someone who is good at skating?”

“Oh, for sure—well, maybe not necessarily a skater, but I bet it would be someone who understands hard work: how you need to put in effort, day in and day out, if you want to get good at what you do.”

Yuuri nods. Yuuri understands hard work, and Phichit knows it. He takes a drink.

He feels vaguely bad for leading his pure friend down the slippery slope. Here’s to hoping it will all work out in the end.

“To be this good, he must work so hard!” Phichit says. “It must take up all his time; he probably can’t really afford any frivolous hobbies.”

“Yeah. In his SKATING interview last year, they asked him about _The Walking Dead_ and he said he has no time for TV.”

So that’s where the no TV thing comes from. “Precisely because of this, though, maybe he’d want someone interesting, with unique experiences of their own.” Hint-hint, nudge-nudge. “A person who can encourage him to try new things; someone to enrich his life, not just know about it. Someone to surprise him. Make him grow in ways he hasn’t imagined before.” Did he lay it on too thick?

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Yuuri says quietly.

Nope, it was exactly thick enough. Seed planted.

“And sexually, too.” Shoot for the moon, land among the stars, etcetera. “If I were Victor Nikiforov, I think I would really like someone adventurous in bed. Maybe even someone who can show me new kinks! I think that’d be really exciting.”

Yuuri is red and looking at him all wide-eyed. “S-s-so you think Victor Nikiforov would be kinky?”

“Well, he likes surprises, doesn’t he? He would like exploring new things with a skilled partner.”

Yuuri takes a sip of his Corona, swallowing hard.

“Aaaaalsoooo,” Phichit drawls and wiggles his eyebrows. “You know how he always likes to surprise the audience? Make them go, ‘whoa,’ and exceed their expectations?”

Yuri nods.

“Well, I bet you if he were in bed, he would be a little bit like that, too. He would want a partner who would expect a lot from him, and then he would get off on doing even better and really wowing them.”

Yuuri, if possible, goes even redder. He shifts in his seat and pulls his t-shirt over his lap. _Gotcha, buddy!_

Phichit proceeds with his best go at utmost innocence. “Do you think he’d be a dom or a sub?”

Yuuri’s eyes are large and round, and Phichit can’t tell if this is an “Oh My God, Please Mercy” face or an “I Can’t Get Enough Of Talking About This” one.

Yuuri looks down. “I, ah, well, I don’t know,” he mumbles.

“Oh, come on!” Phichit says. “I know you’re on all of these forums and chat groups, you guys _must_ have theories!”

“Well, yes, but...”

“I think he’d go both ways,” Phichit pushes on. “But I think he’d be more of a sub. All that training and hard work, surely he’d like to let go in the arms of someone really really skilful? Can you picture him, these strong legs, his butt, his hair falling just so, his eyes in slits? It would be awesome.”

Yuuri takes in a deep breath. Exhales. “Yeah,” he says quietly and reverently.

 _Oh, shit_ , Phichit thinks. Because this wasn’t just, _I’m hot for him_. It was more like, _I’d worship him and live for him and give him all of myself—all that I am and all that I have, to only make him happy._ And if a celebrity like Nikiforov were to meet someone like Yuuri, well. The guy had enough fans and sycophants. One more wouldn’t stand out from the crowd, would be good at most for a one-night stand, and would shy, intense Yuuri be able to handle that?

He resolves then and there that he’d never let that happen.

Yuuri sighs again, then picks up his second Corona and drains it. Phichit quietly opens them a third: he’d need it now, if he were Yuuri.

Yuuri takes another big and silent swig.

The original plan was to poke a little bit at Yuuri; to get him in touch with his feelings and use them to persuade him to get out of his shell. To go clubbing, to watch movies; date a little, have a drink. Make out, maybe with Phichit, maybe not. See where it goes. Win-win for them both.

But Yuuri has it bad: much worse than Phichit’s suspected.

Phichit takes a swig from his own drink and thinks. Maybe this isn’t a complete loss; maybe the original plan can still work, with a twist—the twist being that this is no longer just about Phichit getting to have fun in boring, foreign America but about helping a friend.

Nothing for it.

“If he met a really skilled dom,” he continues, “I bet he’d respect that person. As an athlete, he knows what it takes to become so good at something you make it seem effortless.”

Yuuri swigs again. “You think it’s stupid, don’t you.” His head drops, his gaze somewhere in his lap.

“What’s stupid?”

“This. Me. I’m pathetic and I know it. You don’t need to rub it in.” Yuuri chokes and wipes at his face.

Phichit drinks, because _shit_.

He really hopes he doesn’t regret this. “Actually? No. If you didn’t stand a chance, I’d never encourage you. That would be fucking cruel.”

Yuuri looks up, and there are tears in his eyes, and incredulity, but there's a little hope, too.

Phichit tries to hook into it. “You’re not just some rando. You’re a competitive skater, and a good one; it’s not so far-fetched that you’d meet him one day—maybe at the GPF, maybe at the Worlds. If you want him and you play your cards right, I think you have a chance.”

Yuuri is looking at him wide-eyed, mouth open.

“But.” Phichit says, and tries to put all the weight he can behind that _but_. “You must meet him as an equal. His equal in skating, but also his equal in confidence. Or else, you’ll be just another notch on his bedpost.”

Yuuri drinks.

Phichit drinks, too. “Anyway. That’s just my two cents.”

*~*~*

Over the next week, Yuuri’s thoughtful and silent—really thoughtful and silent, even on the Yuuri scale. He shows up meticulous for practice and drills quads with grim determination, then skates over for a drink of Gatorade as is back to drilling some more.

Phichit gives him space to think. He makes sure the rest of the Coronas are chilled and in the fridge, and he stays off Grindr in case Yuuri needs him. They still walk to practice together, it’s just that they’re quieter. Miraculously, all of this isn’t weird. Yuuri trusts Phichit, and Phichit is glad.

Sometime on Wednesday, Yuuri decides. Phichit can tell because of how the set of his shoulders changes, and because of how his face becomes even more determined than usual.

On Thursday, Yuuri smiles again.

What surprises Phichit is, it’s the same old smile. On the one hand, this makes him feel better: no major harm done. On the other, he realizes that his friend was always going for bust, immolating himself in pursuit of this dream.

It scares him, what would happen if Yuuri fails.

*~*~*

The first Amazon package arrives about a week later. Yuuri tries to hide it, but Phichit sneaks a peek anyway: _Waaaah, you got a package, how exciting, what did you get, is it something fun, show me_ _show me!_ appears to go a long way towards eroding the defences of shy friends.

Turns out, it’s instructional books.

There’s a general one called _SM101_.

The next has detailed, step-by-step instructions for making knots and rope art. It has hard covers, thick paper and glossy, high-quality, artistic pictures to accompany each rope pattern—for wrists, arms, ankles, whole body. There’s a picture of a man’s erect penis, angry and red, black twine gouging into his skin. Phichit shudders just looking at it.

Another thick, hard-cover one: _Encyclopedia of Sex Toys._ Also glossy pictures.

Last, a two-DVD instruction set on flogging and paddling—most probably with live demonstrations.

“I figured it would be enough for a start,” Yuuri says. Apparently, when it comes to Victor Nikiforov, Katsuki Yuuri is incapable of going half way.

*~*~*

They’re hanging out in Yuuri’s room this time, finishing up the rest of the Coronas.

Phichit’s sitting on the floor with the bondage book over his crossed legs, and even his usually bubbly self is in awe. He looks at the craft of it, at the love and patience and skill that went into tying the ropes. There’s a girl with her hands tied behind her back, red rope criss-crosses her forearms, pinning them together elbow to wrist. He almost wants to try it—see if he can touch his arms like that. Probably: they’re skaters, they do flexibility training. Yuuri can probably do it, too.

Phichit turns the page and wonders what it would feel like, to be crafted on like that. To relax into the binds, and curve his spine to complete a pose—the matching, living piece of art.

To be beautiful for someone.

To be told it.

He takes a deep breath. Across him, sitting with his back to the bed, Yuuri watches.

Phichit looks at the next picture—a plump black girl with natural hair. She’s in a full body bind, stomach on the floor, her wrists and ankles secured to each other in the air. Her body makes a smooth, graceful bow. White rope digs in her thighs, her butt, her stomach and forms straining bulges of flesh. Phichit gets a little hard. For some reason, the bulges remind him of tits.

He blinks.

“Wow,” he says, his throat a little dry, tracing the picture with a finger. “I think it would be really cool to be able to do this.”

Yuuri keeps watching.

“You can practice on me, if you want.” Phichit swallows. “We can practice on each other,” he affirms before too much emotion makes its way into his voice.

*~*~*

Over the next week, Yuuri receives two more packages. Phichit doesn’t ask: he figures he’ll find out on Friday.

 _Friday._ Phichit soaks in Yuuri’s quiet intensity during practice, and gets butterflies in his stomach just at the thought.

Ciao Ciao watches both of them like a hawk, his lips in a straight line. Even he senses something’s afoot. Thank god he doesn’t know what.

He pulls them over in the locker room. “Whatever is going on, sort it out. I won’t have distracted skaters on my ice. Clear?” he tells them with uncharacteristic sternness. He probably assumes they’re quiet ‘cause they’ve fallen out.

They both nod, grateful that he doesn’t ask.

“Thursday night after practice, to talk?” Yuuri says when the door closes after Ciao Ciao. “We can start properly Friday.” There’s a confidence in his voice that wasn’t there the week before.

The plan seems to be working. Thank fuck.

“Sounds good,” Phichit says. He’s done feeling vaguely guilty. Yuuri will do this, and he will ace it—and even if Nikiforov’s dumb enough to turn it down, plenty of others won’t. Yuuri would just need to get over his moping—but then, Phichit will be there for that.

*~*~*

On Friday, after practice, he knocks on Yuuri’s door with two containers of take-out. “Sorry, no beer left.” He plops himself on the floor, cross-legged.

Yuuri stands up from his computer chair. “We shouldn’t be drinking anyway,” he says. “I read it’s important not to numb your sensations, so you can tell accurately if something’s too tight or if your limbs start tingling.”

Of course Yuuri has read. He’s going at this like he’s going at his quad salchows: focused, methodical, and crossing all t’s that are to be crossed along the way.

Suddenly, Phichit really wants to know what Yuuri plans do to him.

“We should have dinner.” Yuuri sits on the floor, too, and digs in the bag for his food.

Apparently, not yet.

“Pork dumplings,” Phichit says.

“Nice.” Yuuri breaks his pair of chopsticks in two. “So, before we start, there’s this thing I made-- you should tell me what you think.” He stretches a hand and grabs a black Moleskine from the bed. He hands it over.

Phichit opens it and stops chewing.

It’s a training plan.

A detailed training plan, blocked around their rink, studio, and gym times. There’s annotations, and the relevant reference book pages are jotted to one side. Yuuri would assign them fucking _reading._

“I’ve tried to avoid scheduling strenuous things if Ciao Ciao wants us to do high-intensity training first thing in the morning,” Yuuri says. “But obviously, we can adapt this as we go along.”

Phichit wonders if he should stare at the plan or at Yuuri.

“You’ve planned me doing you here,” he says finally and points.

“You said you wanted to learn, right? Plus the books say if you’re serious about being good at it you should try both sides.”

“Right.” So Phichit was going to do rope bondage. On Yuuri. He blinks, and for some reason wonders whether Yuuri’s thighs and butt will make flesh-loaves like the black girl’s. Also, what it would be like to run his palms over the taut bumps, all the way up, and spread Yuuri’s ass.

Well, okay then.

“I think we should have sex,” he says.

Yuuri stops chewing, chopsticks still in his mouth, and raises an eyebrow.

“If you’re going for gold, you should practice like it. With both your rope and sex technique down, you’ll blow his mind away.” 

“I… thank you for believing that.” Yuuri says quietly.

Phichit shrugs. “I want to develop ice skating in a tropical country, and you believe in me.” He thinks about Yuuri jerking himself off, squeezing his eyes tight and seeing Victor bound. “Isn't this what friends are for?"

  


  



End file.
